by Libba Bray
“And what will you do if she comes for you?”
I stare at the mist swirling into little funnels. "I’ll make certain she never harms anyone ever again.”
Miss Moore takes my hand. "I’m frightened for you, Gemma.”
So am I.
It’s growing warmer. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades and plasters moist strands of hair to my forehead.
“This heat,” Felicity says, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.
“It’s horrid.” Pippa lifts her hair, keeping it from touching her neck. But as there is no breeze to cool her, she lets go.
Miss Moore trains her eyes on the river, taking in every sight, every sound. Watching the water flow under and away from us, I wonder what has become of Mae and Bessie Timmons and the rest of the factory girls. Have they been swallowed up and enslaved by the dark spirits of the Winterlands? Did it happen quickly or did they have time to realize the full horror of what was happening to them?
I close my eyes against these thoughts and let the movement of the boat lull me.
“We’re nearing the shallows,” the gorgon says.
The river’s begun to change color. I can see to the bottom. It’s lined with phosphorescent stones and shoals that make our hands look green and blue. The barge comes to a stop.
“I cannot go farther,” the gorgon says.
“We’re on foot from here,” I say. “Gorgon, may we take the nets with us?”
The gorgon nods her giant head. The others scramble to release them. The gorgon calls me to her. “Be careful you are not caught in a net, Most High,” she says.
“I shall,” I say, feeling uneasy.
But the gorgon shakes her head. The snakes hiss and writhe. “Some nets are difficult to see until you are thoroughly ensnared.”
“Gemma!” Felicity calls in a loud whisper. I run to join the others. Felicity’s got her arrows; Pip and Miss Moore have the nets and a rope. We step from the barge into ankle-deep water and onto land obscured by a cloud bank. The ground below us is hard and unforgiving. We have to hold hands to steady ourselves. The mist clears a bit, and I can see the desolate landscape of black, rocky hills. Small, steaming ponds lie here and there, carved into the rock. The mist rises from them in green, sulfurous whorls.
On hands and knees, we climb to the top of a jagged rock. Stretched out below is a deep, wide lagoon. The phosphorescent stones at the bottom of the lagoon give it a blue-green glow that leaks into the mist coming off the surface.
“I see her!” Felicity says.
“Where?” Miss Moore asks, surveying the horizon.
Felicity points to a flat rock at the far edge of the lagoon. Stripped to her chemise, Ann has been tied to the rock as if she is the figurehead on the bow of a ship. She stares straight ahead as if in a trance.
They will take the song, pin her to the rock. Do not let the song die.
“Do not let the song die,” I say. “Ann is the song. That’s what Nell was trying to say.”
“Let’s go,” Felicity says, starting her descent.
“Wait,” I say, pulling her back.
The water nymphs emerge from the depths, their shiny heads like polished stones in the glow of the water. They sing sweetly to Ann. The pull of their voices begins to work on me.
“They are like the sirens of old. Don’t listen. Cover your ears,” Miss Moore orders. We do except for Pippa. She is not susceptible to their lures, and I am reminded once again that she is no longer the Pippa we knew, no matter how much we’d all like to pretend otherwise.
Below, the water nymphs move some sort of sea sponge through Ann’s tangled mop of hair, turning the strands a pearly green-gold. They stroke their webbed fingers across her arms and legs. She’s covered in the light sheen of the sparkling scales they’ve left behind. They stroke the sponge over Ann’s skin, making her shiver. Her skin turns the same shiny green-gold.
The nymphs have stopped singing.
“What are they doing?” I whisper.
Miss Moore’s expression is grim. “If the legends are accurate, they are preparing Miss Bradshaw.”
“Preparing her for what?” Felicity says.
Miss Moore pauses. “They’re getting ready to take her skin.”
We gasp in horror.
“That’s what makes the water so beautiful and warm,” Miss Moore explains. “Human skin.”
Far across the lagoon, the mist grows brighter, taking form. One girl emerges, then another and another, till all three of the ghostly forms are present. The three in white. For a moment, they look in our direction with a curious smile, yet they do not betray us.
“Get down,” I say, pulling at Miss Moore’s skirt. She lies flat against the rock. “Those are very dark spirits. You don’t wish to be seen by them.”
The girls call to the nymphs in a tongue I do not know. When I peek over the rock, I see the girls leading the nymphs around a jetty and out of sight.
“Now,” I say.
As quickly as we can, we scramble down the rocky cliff and out onto the near shore.
“Who shall go?” Pippa asks anxiously.
“I shall go,” Miss Moore says.
“No,” I say. “I shall. She is my responsibility.”
Miss Moore nods. “As you wish.”
She ties the rope around her middle. "If things should prove difficult, tug on the rope and we shall pull you to safety.”
I take the other end and swim toward Ann on the rock. The water is surprisingly comfortable, but I shudder to think why it is so beautiful. As I get farther out, I find I have to close my eyes to keep going. At last I reach Ann.
“Ann?” I whisper, then more urgently, “Ann!”
“Gemma?” she says, as if briefly waking from a drugged stupor. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “We’ve come for you. Hold still.”
I loop the rope around Ann’s waist and tie it tight. My fingers are slippery with lagoon water, but I am able to loosen the knots that hold her feet and hands. Ann slides into the water with a little splash.
“Gemma!” Felicity whisper-yells from the shore. “Don’t let her drown.”
I pull up on the rope and Ann bobs to the surface, coughing, awake. She thrashes about.
“Ann! Shush! You’ll bring them . . .”
Too late. Across the lagoon, the nymphs have ended their meeting with the beastly girls in white. They see what I’m about. Angry and snarling, they let loose with a fierce screech that rips through me. They do not like that I’ve dared to take their pet. Then there is only the silvery bow of their backs as they dive under, one by one, swimming fast for us, hungry for our pretty skin.
I push off from the rock, towing Ann. I can feel Miss Moore drawing hard on the rope, but we’re both struggling against Ann’s dead weight.
“Come on, Annie, you’ve got to swim for it,” I plead.
She does a groggy crawl, her arms thrashing about in the water, but we’re no match for the furious nymphs coming our way.
I scream, no longer caring to keep quiet. “Pull! On the rope—pull hard!”
Felicity and Pippa rush to aid Miss Moore. Grunting and straining, they tug as hard as they can. We plow violently through the water. It’s not enough.
“Use the nets!” I screech, taking in a mouthful of foul water so that I cough and gag.
Pippa runs for the nets. She hurls one out. It sails overhead and splashes into the water. The nymphs scream in rage. The net has frightened them, but only temporarily. They renew their efforts. This time, Pippa’s net lands on four of the nymphs. There’s a horrible scream as the net burns their skin. They bubble and blister until they are nothing more than sea foam.
The others fall behind, afraid to go farther. Felicity and Pippa lug us from the water onto the sharp shoals.
Miss Moore helps me to my feet. “Are you all right?”
Ann vomits onto the shoals. She is weak but alive.
We’ve cheated them of their prize.
I can’t help myself. I shout with glee and satisfaction. “Take our skin, will you? Ha! Take that!”
“Gemma,” Miss Moore advises, pulling me back from the water. “Do not taunt them.”
Indeed, the nymphs do not take kindly to my celebration. They open their mouths and begin to sing. The lure of it is like a net drawing me toward the water. Oh, that sound, like a promise that there need be no worry or want ever again. I could grow drunk on that tune.
Miss Moore places her fingers in her ears. “Don’t listen!”
Felicity wades into the warm water to her ankles, then her knees, drawn by the song. Pippa runs to the edge, screaming her name. “Fee! Fee!”
Ann’s begun to sing along. For a moment, I’m distracted by her voice. What am I doing in the water? I step out. Ann stops singing, and the nymphs flood me with their sweet promises again.
I’m vaguely aware of Miss Moore screaming, “Ann! Sing! You’ve got to sing!”
Ann finds her song again. It pulls me away from the water and the nymphs enough to see what is happening. Felicity’s swimming farther out.
“Sing, Ann!” I shout. My hands find the faint throb at her throat. “Sing as if your life depends on it.”
Ann’s song, thin at first, is no match for the temptation in Felicity’s ears. But her voice gains strength. She sings more loudly and more powerfully than I have ever heard her sing, until she is the song itself. She stares at those creatures like a warrior warning of the battle to come. In the water, Felicity stops. Pippa rushes in after her.
“Fee, come back with me.”
She reaches out her hand and Felicity takes it.
“Come on,” Pippa says softly, luring her from the water.
“Come on.”
Felicity follows Ann’s voice and Pippa’s hand until she is back on solid ground.
“Pippa?” Felicity says.
Pippa embraces her, and Felicity holds so tightly I fear she will break Pippa.
The nymphs, realizing they have lost, screech in rage.
“Let’s not wait around, shall we?” Miss Moore says. She gathers the rope onto her shoulder. I am so grateful for Miss Moore at this moment I could cry.
“Thank you, Hester,” I say.
“It is I who should thank you, Gemma.”
“For what?” I ask.
But there is no answer to that question. For the girls in white have returned. And they are not alone. They’ve brought the fearsome creature I’ve seen in my vision, the one who followed us back from the Caves of Sighs—a tracker. It emerges from behind them in the darkness, rising, spreading out till we are forced to look up at the vast, roiling expanse of it. The girls step inside it like children clinging to a mother’s skirts.
“At last . . . ,” it says.
Run. Get away. Can’t move. The fear. Such fear. The wings unfurl revealing the horrible faces within. The hate. The terror.
Miss Moore pushes me out of the way, her voice strong. “Run!”
We tumble down the black rock. The slide is rough. It cuts my hands, but we reach the ground quickly.
“Get to the gorgon,” Felicity shouts. She is in the lead, Pippa just behind. I’m pulling Ann, who can barely run. But where is Miss Moore? I see her! She appears in the sulfur green mist. The beast and the girls are close on her heels.
She waves us on. “Go! Go!”
Pulling Ann along, I run as fast as I can till I see the gorgon in the shallows. The four of us clamber onto the boat.
Miss Moore emerges, but the thing is quick. It blocks her path.
“Miss Moore!” I shout.
“No! Gemma, run!” she shouts. “Do not wait for me!”
With a mighty groan, the gorgon sets us back on course for the garden. I climb to the railing, but Felicity and Pippa pull at my arms. I’m fighting like a madwoman.
“Gorgon, stop this instant! I’m ordering you to stop!”
But she doesn’t. We’re slipping away from the shore, where that terrible creature towers over my friend.
“Miss Moore! Miss Moore!” I shout till my voice is raw, till I’ve no voice left. "Miss Moore,” I croak, sliding to the deck of the boat.
We’re back in the garden. My eyes are raw from crying. I’m exhausted and sick. I turn to the gorgon.
“Why didn’t you stop when I ordered you to do so?”
That thick, scaly head rolls slowly toward me. “I am ordered first to bring no harm to you, Most High.”
“We could have saved her!” I cry.
The head swivels away. “I think not.”
“Gemma,” Ann says gently. “You’ve got to make the door.”
Felicity and Pippa sit together, arms intertwined, loathe to leave each other.
I close my eyes.
“Gemma,” Ann says.
“Circe’s creature got her, and I wasn’t able to stop it.”
No one has a comforting thing to say.
“I’m going to kill her,” I say, my words hard as steel. "I’m going to face her, and then I shall kill her.”
It takes tremendous effort to make the door of light appear. The others must steady me. But finally it shimmers into view. Pippa waves goodbye and blows kisses to us all. I’m the last to go through, and as I wait, I glance one last time at Pippa. She’s pulled something out from its hiding place behind a tree. It’s the carcass of a small animal. She stares at it longingly before crouching low, sitting on her haunches like some beast herself. She brings the flesh to her mouth and feeds, her eyes gone white with hunger.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
MISS MOORE IS GONE. SHE IS GONE. I’VE NOT FOUND the Temple. The Rakshana were wrong to trust me with this task. I am not Nell Hawkins’s Lady Hope. I am not the Most High, the one to bring back the glory of the Order and the magic. I am Gemma Doyle, and I have failed.
I am so tired. My body aches; my head feels stuffed with cotton. I should like to lie down and sleep for days. I am too tired even to undress. I lie across my bed. The room swirls for a moment, and then I am fast asleep and dreaming.
I’m flying over darkened, rain-slicked streets, through alleys where filthy children gnaw at mealy bread thick with buzzing insects. I fly on, till I’m floating down the halls of Bethlem and into Nell Hawkins’s room.
“Lady Hope,” she whispers. "What have you done?”
I don’t understand. I cannot answer. There are footsteps in the corridor.
“What have you done? What have you done?” she shouts. “Jack and Jill went up the hill; Jack and Jill went up the hill; Jack and Jill went up the hill.”
I’m floating away on her ramblings, floating high above the corridor, where the lady in the green cloak sweeps down the darkened hall, unnoticed. I’m floating out into the inky night over St. George’s when I hear Nell Hawkins’s faint, stifled cry.
I do not know how late I have slept, what day it is, or where I am when I am awakened by an anxious Mrs. Jones.
“Miss, miss! You’d best dress quickly. Lady Denby has come to call with Mr. Simon. Your grandmother sent me to fetch you straightaway.”
“I’m not feeling well,” I say, flopping back on the pillows.
Mrs. Jones pulls me to a sitting position. "Once they’ve gone, you can rest all you like, miss. But for now, I’m to get you dressed and be quick about it.”
When I descend, they’re all assembled in the parlor, huddled tightly over teacups. If this is a social call, it is not going well. Something is amiss. Even Simon isn’t smiling.
“Gemma,” Grandmama says. "Sit down, child.”
“I’m afraid I have some rather troubling news concerning your acquaintance Miss Bradshaw,” Lady Denby says. My heart stops.
“Oh?” I say, faintly.
“Yes. I thought it strange that I wouldn’t know of her family, so I’ve made inquiries. There is no Duke of Chesterfield in Kent. In fact, I was able to turn up nothing on a girl discovered to be of the Russian nobility.”
Grandmama shakes her head. "It is shocking. S
hocking!”
“What I did discover is that she has a rather vulgar cousin—a merchant’s wife who lives in Croydon. I’m afraid your Miss Bradshaw is little more than a fortune hunter,” Lady Denby says.
“I never cared for her,” Grandmama says.
“There must be some mistake,” I offer weakly.
“That is a kind assessment, my dear,” Lady Denby says, patting my hand. "But remember that you too have been tainted by this scandal. And Mrs. Worthington, of course. To think that they opened their home to her. Of course, Mrs. Worthington isn’t known for her sound judgment, if I may be so bold.”
Grandmama gives her edict. “You are to have no further acquaintance with that girl.”
Tom enters. His face is drawn and pale.
“Thomas? What is the matter?” Grandmama asks.
“It’s Miss Hawkins. She took ill in the night with a fever. She will not wake.” He shakes his head, unable to continue.
“I dreamed about her last night,” I blurt out.
“Did you? What did you dream?” Simon asks.
I dreamed of Circe and Nell’s stifled cry. What if that was no dream?
“I—I don’t remember,” I say.
“Oh, poor dear, you’re pale,” Lady Denby says. "It is very hard to hear that one has been duped by a supposed friend. And now your Miss Hawkins is ill. It must be a terrible shock.”
“Yes, thank you,” I say. "I’m not feeling well.”
“Poor dear,” Lady Denby murmurs again. “Simon, do be a gentleman and help Miss Doyle.”
Simon takes my arm and escorts me from the room.
“I can’t bear to think of Ann in such trouble,” I say.
“If she misrepresented herself, she deserves what comes,” Simon says. "No one likes to be deceived.”
As I am deceiving Simon, letting him think me this uncomplicated English schoolgirl? Would he run if he knew the truth? Would he feel I had misled him? Keeping secrets is as much an illusion as acting out an elaborate charade.
“I know this is a horrible imposition, Mr. Middleton,” I say. “But could you possibly delay your mother’s visit to Mrs. Worthington until I’ve had a chance to speak with Miss Bradshaw?”
Simon gives me a smile. “I’ll do my best. But you should know that once my mother sets her sights on something, there is little you can do to change the course of it. I think she’s set her sights on you.”